Disclaimer: I do not own this, but I do own the philosophical musings of a newly made adult at the end.

On a world note, HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ANYONE WHO HAPPENS TO BE READING THIS! Unless, of course, you celebrate Chinese New Year, in which case HAPPY CHINESE NEW YEAR TO COME!

On a personal stretching into an informative note, on Thursday 28th of December, 2006, I, SarahBelle, turned eighteen. I am now, according to the laws of England, virtually an adult in every single way. I can vote (although politics bores and depresses me). I can apply for a driver's license (although technically I could already do that when I was seventeen). I can legally drink in pubs (although I hate alcohol in every form, and made rather interesting faces when Mum sweetly influenced me into drinking the champagne at my birthday tea, and caught it all on camera forever; unless I manage to get hold of the camera somehow, which should be intriguing. Cue the Mission Impossible music.)

Quel est le point ?

Mum and Lucie have been asking me whether I feel any different now that I'm eighteen, and I've told them I don't; but secretly I do feel just a little depressed, even though I got some good presents, again. I mean, I liked being a child, or at least a growing up child. I liked being hyper, but now I shall always have to pass it off as being eccentric. Which is not necessarily a bad thing, but still…

But really; the eeriest thing about being eighteen? Even more creepy than the fact that I can now get married without my parents' permission (which I again could do when I was seventeen, but now I supposedly should feel better about it, for some reason), which in itself should be a sign for everyone to dash for the bunkers (since whatever husband I am possibly crazy enough to engage in holy wedlock and who is likewise as crazy, and whatever children we would have, should I choose to have children, would quite certainly, however in-avertedly, bring about the apocalypse)save for the fact that I am, in my own words, a 'prude'?

It's the fact that I am now, theoretically, the same age as many of my main characters, and so the same age as Christine. Who basically, I feel, is in much the same position as poor little Elizabeth Swann (another heroine who I am now supposedly round about the same age as) is between William Turner and Captain Jack Sparrow.

Aka, a love triangle. (Cover your ears to block out the squees of the E/C shippers, if you please.) Including a man who, though he is dead, is certainly subtly interested in something no dead person should have to be concerned about. Unless the Marquis de Sade happens to be around. (All you eighteen year olds out there, watch Quills. If nothing else, it gives an interesting view into the nature of the human psyche, as well as what makes certain people tick. And feel sick. Hee hee.)

And I'm now the same age as the girl he's madly, passionately and fatally in love with, and who, despite all she says, might just be reciprocating. (Right, now really cover your ears.)

It's odd. It's fascinating. But more than anything else, to my mind at least, it's time to be very afraid.

(This chapter gets three quotes again, in late celebration of my birthday, and because you all seem to like them so much.)

They say that the Dead die not, but remain

Near to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth.

I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these,

In wise majestic melancholy train,

And watch the moon, and the still raging seas,

And men, coming and going on the earth.

From Clouds, by Rupert Brooke

Morpheus: I thank you. The kings of Hell are honorable. I will remember this.

Lucifer: Honorable? You joke, surely. Look around you, Morpheus. The million Lords of Hell stand arrayed about you. Tell us why we should let you leave? Helmet or no, you have no power here... what power have dreams in hell?

Morpheus: You say I have no power? Perhaps you speak truly... But -- you say that Dreams have no power here? Tell me, Lucifer Morningstar.. Ask yourselves, all of you... What power would Hell have if those here imprisoned were not able to dream of Heaven?

A Hope in Hell, from Preludes and Nocturnes, by Neil Gaiman

The Bride(aka Beatrix Kiddo): Bitch, you can stop right there. Just because I have no wish to murder you before the eyes of your daughter, does not mean parading her around in front of me is going to inspire sympathy. You and I have unfinished business. And not a goddamn fuckin' thing you've done in the subsequent four years, including getting knocked up, is going to change that.

Kill Bill: Vol 1, directed by Quentin Tarantino, writing credits Quentin Tarantino and Una Thurman. (Leaving aside the high literature for the moment, and getting back to basics. You really can't get more basic than going on a revenge quest and hacking people to bits with an incredibly spiffy sword. And if you can, it's news to me.)

Encroaching shadows

Blood. The scent, the very essence of it, had surged through the underworld, and the dregs of the dead had latched onto it like hounds upon the trail of the wounded prey. The sluggish drain of the river had suddenly changed direction, and now millions of tiny rivulets were moving very swiftly upstream, squirming and searching for the warmth of the blood, the warmth of the life that was being spilt for their pleasure and consumption. The very river glowed and gurgled with their degenerate anticipation of the feast that might come, should they be quick enough to reach it.

Erik followed on moldering foot, walking far more quickly along the bank than any mortal being would be able to master, faster even than the lesser spirits trapped within the river's banks. It would not last, of course – now that his own particularly beautiful little source of life was…gone, soon he would lose the ability to hold himself inside this body, just as he would lose much of the power he had gained with Christine's blessed presence. Soon he would be unable to hold on to his mortal, fleshly body, and it would fall away piece by piece, even quicker if he exerted himself too much. Once more he would lose his body, and after some time, he had resigned himself that this time, it would be forever.

Most people only died once; it took a very special and unfortunate person to experience death twice.

Still, while he still had vigor in him, he would not waste it by silently mourning in his lair, and the music had failed to come since she had gone. What had once been his home, or as much a home as the after-life could provide, had now become empty; empty of joy, empty of purpose, empty of hope, empty of…her. If he stayed there, he knew that he would go mad, truly mad. He had often heard, when he was alive, that the dead feared nothing any longer; but he knew in his still, silent heart that this was not true. Some might think that all his fear was gone, now that…

But now, his greatest fear was that he would descend into madness; that he would be destroyed by insanity and grief from the inside out, shredded and rotted more quickly and efficiently than any decay or loss of power could achieve. And he would lose whatever memory he had of her. That would truly be worse than remembering her back turned towards him, forever and ever. He did not know what would be worse; the calm and peace that madness and dissolution would bring, or the sweet agony that came with memory.

He did believe, however, when he could fight off his misery enough to think rationally, that he perhaps understood a particular definition of hell – merely the absence of God's presence, save for the fact that instead of God, all he had come to worship and adore in his death was Christine.

How could he stay in that place, that place where he had held an angel in his arms, where he had humbled himself before a very goddess – only to have her abandon him, with barely a word, barely a glance, as if he were as much an insect as Lucifer? It was folly. What was more, it bore down upon him with all the weight of the earth.

So, he was stretching his legs, while he still physically had them.

And, he had to admit, he was curious, despite his lethargy, to see who exactly was being stupid enough to perform a summoning with such a dangerously large amount of blood, as well as whether the one who had been summoned was giving in to temptation yet and draining the life of their own, dear relative.

The idea of the length of the journeys taken in the Land of the Dead was nowhere near as great as the scope that the mortal mind had suggested. It was mildly depressing. If Christine were beside him, or more likely in the boat in front of him, it would take far longer; as it was it seemed that he had hardly started out on his morose little walk before abruptly the surge raged upwards, and through the layers both of earth and of something far stronger than earth.

It was oddly fascinating to stand and watch the seemingly never ending upsurge, pouring up into the roof of the cavern this particular part of the river was set in. Fascinating, but disturbing as well. The spirits, in their efforts, had lost their translucence, and now in their frantic scrambles and scuffles they actually appeared to have taken on the consistency of thick, writhing shadow. Either that, or the appearance of impossibly large and excited black slugs.

He shook his head softly, as he stood and stared at the onslaught. It was disquieting, seeing the depths to which humanity could sink after death. Of course, he knew that the majority of the shapes in the river were not truly spirits, not like the ones in the necropolis, but merely an impression of the psyche of various multitudes of humans, particularly ones who had died violently or unexpectedly. Perhaps some imprint of him was swimming about in there, somewhere; certainly he had been scared senseless in his early days in the Land of the Dead when he had gazed into the waters and seen Nadir's blank, shocked face staring up at him…

He bit his lip at the thought of his old friend…his former friend. He couldn't think of him anymore. Along with thoughts of Christine, it was simply too painful. If he spent too much time obsessing over the betrayal, that would be as damaging as his grief. He simply could not let that happen, or otherwise he would end up a demented, foaming wreck, with his flesh falling like snow into the bargain. If he had to lose his body, along with everything else, he wanted at least to do it with some dignity.

I have been robbed of it in practically everything else.

Even as he mused upon that sour thought, another shock vibrated through the vast cavern. All there, himself included, knew what this meant; the foolish human performing the summoning had finally noticed the amount of blood lost and the danger they were in, and was breaking off the connection to the Land of the Dead. Instead of being discouraged, however, the torrent of spirits became a veritable flood, squirming and burrowing their way up and up and to the surface. This was the crucial moment now, when the memory of the connection was still fresh, and could easily be constructed again by enough power from below. Surely the first of the dregs must have reached above by now?

The sight of the threshing, writhing force of bodies sickened him. Now more than ever he was reminded of dogs, hunting down a bleeding, helpless animal. The irony of the situation was not unobvious to him. He knew as well, all too well, what it was like to flee from those chasing him, his precious blood spilling out of him, taking his life and strength with it. And he knew what it was like to happen again, only with far more pain and the mercy of death already gone, with no balm to heal his wounded soul.

I will not listen to this.

He was already turning to return to his lair – even the empty silence would be better than the screams which would very soon begin, when the spirits found the unlucky caster and began to drain them, piercing both earth and the barrier between the worlds of the living and the dead – when a wave of anguish so familiar, so strong, clutched at his heart and squeezed it, enough to draw a gasp out of him.

Christine? he thought wildly. But it was not her, thankfully. He took some small delight in that. He bore her no ill will, not with all that other people had done. He couldn't even believe that she had betrayed him, not because he knew that she hadn't, but because it was easier for him, and probably for her.

It was that, or, as he reminded himself again and again, drive himself insane.

But in any case, it wasn't her. It was…Nadir?

What on earth was Nadir doing above the earth, now, at this time of all times? Unless…

Unless…

That filthy hypocrite.

He looked up at the hole in the cavern ceiling, through which the spirits were still pouring, and he felt a smile curve his lips. It felt out of place. It seemed as if he had lost the ability long ago. It was not a particularly friendly smile, at least, he could tell that.

He took a step forward, and placing his hands upon the rocks nearest him began to clamber up the cavern wall with little or no effort, until he reached the spot where the hole had been wrenched by the sheer force of the spirits pressing upon it.

The shades of those who passed through the Land of the Dead had lost many of their human faculties while constantly stewing in the river, but that did not automatically make them stupid. On the contrary, losing all the unnecessary baggage Man had developed over the centuries to carry around inside his head had left them in much the same state as the uncultured, innocent animals; and animals are often far more intelligent than humans give them credit for. These particular spirits knew exactly what sort of creature he was, and they reacted as any animal might to an unknown but rapidly approaching threat. The mass of squirming, wriggling specters shied away from him, the eyes that he could see wide and fearful, and his smile widened as he reached the edge of the hole and began his long, laborious climb upwards and through the dark tunnel that had been crafted.

The journey only took a few seconds, he knew, but it felt like an eternity of reaching upwards, pulling himself up, getting a foot hold, and then repeating the procedure again, and again, and again. At least he did not have to concern himself about in-avertedly being touched by one of the spirits – not that it would do him much harm if such a thing happened – since all the way up they cringed away, pushing against each other, even swarming back down the tunnel in their efforts not to touch him. As a result, he reached the place of summoning extremely quickly, before even any other of the frantically burrowing shades that had worked so hard making the connection, all for him.

What he saw, when he emerged with a wriggle of triumph of his own into a branch of the live world, if not the Land of the Living itself, was enough to spark some astonishment, an emotion he had not thought he would ever have enough energy for again.

There was a man, a fairly young man, lying in both the middle of a protective circle and a great pool of his own blood, more pumping from his wrist all the while. His face was pale, and he had obviously fainted, partly from the fear that was thick upon the air, but mostly from the loss of blood, the smell of which was also very thick upon the air.

The fact that he was attired in an outfit which obviously denoted him as a priest was what was the most surprising…except perhaps for the fact that, if he looked closer and examined the lines of the man's face and jaw, his nose, his lips, he began almost disturbingly to resemble-

"Darius!"

And here was another surprise, in this interesting evening. He watched coolly as Nadir abruptly flowered into being inside the circle, apparently unaware of his presence, his transparent form becoming clearer by the moment, and his normally cool and collected face twisted by fear and misery. He reached fervently out to the unconscious man, and cried out in despair when his hands went right through him, again and again.

"No! Darius, please, open your eyes! You can't die! Not like this!" he yelled as he stretched out his hands again, apparently undeterred despite his failure.

It was sobering to watch the useless efforts of the spirit, as he tried again and again to lift the mortal, coming close to tears of fear and frustration as he failed each time, calling out the man's name over and over again in desperation; even though he kept firmly in mind the fact that he had sworn to hate him for all eternity. Again he could sympathize, but this time, against his will though it might be, with Nadir instead of the boy, presumably named Darius. He knew what it was like to watch someone he loved pass away, and be unable to do anything about it. He knew that experience all too well.

And so he calmly blocked the paltry efforts of the shades impatiently and greedily building up behind him, streaming up from the Land of the Dead, waiting to fall upon their victim. Death by drainage was one of the most painful demises possible, and despite all that the Persian had done to him he wished to spare Nadir having to watch the suffering of…well, the man had to be his relative, after all, with that face and this particular type of summoning. There was nothing that could be done for the man himself, since too much blood had been lost; but at least the boy could die in peace rather than screaming in agony for the mercy he most certainly would not be granted.

But what was this? Nadir's face had hardened, into an expression he had never seen before, not even when his former friend had been extremely annoyed with him. He looked down upon the pale, drawn features, so like his own, yet so unlike, and appeared to be coming to a major decision. Then he swiftly went down on both knees beside the body, supporting himself with his ghostly hands, and placed his lips to the ever widening pool of blood.

What?

Erik had to work hard not to reveal himself through his shock, and maintain his barrier, especially since the spirits at once set up a howl of protest at this theft of the blood that was theirs, all theirs, and proceeded to commence battering at him with increased fervency. He endured it all patiently, staring as Nadir proceeded to suck the warmth and the life from the blood of his own relative, his descendant. With every gulp the Persian took, he noted with gorwing interest, more colour flowed into Nadir's outline, his clothes, his hair, his skin. With every gulp, he was losing the look of the dead.

With every gulp, he was becoming more alive.

It was all he could do not to react as his former friend abruptly straightened, his suddenly vivid green eyes fixing on the recumbent form before him. Made savage by the energy granted to him the Persian lunged out and seized Darius's still bleeding wrist; and even the spirits behind Erik stopped still when he lifted it up off the floor, and clasped the fingers of his other hand around it.

How can this be? he thought frantically, trying to make sense of the situation. Nadir is dead. He has no body. So how can he manipulate the world of the living? This is impossible!

But apparently Nadir did not know that, as he continued to squeeze Darius's limp wrist. Amazingly, the blood flow appeared to be slowing, even stopping, set to the raging of the spirits that attempted to spew forth from beneath the three of them, but had neither the strength nor the power to change what was happening. And so they could do nothing but watch as Nadir slowly and carefully began to pour the life he had distilled and prepared back into Darius through his swiftly mending wrist. If he strained his ears, Erik could just hear the Persian whispering as he worked.

"You have to live, Darius. Do you hear me? You have to. Live. Live. For all those who love you. For me."

Erik, who was not usually moved by such things, found that it necessary for him to turn his head away and attend to his efforts to keep the enraged spirits away, while Nadir completed the process, and he heard the thump of the man's arm hitting the floor as it finally slipped through Nadir's once more spiritual fingers. He risked looking back as the Persian stood up, his face quieter now, gazing down at his unconscious but now stable human descendant. A little colour was already coming back into the man's face, not just from the blood it was lightly spattered with, and his breathing was growing easier by the moment. He would live.

Nadir passed a shaking hand across his brow, and then turned away to depart, now that he had used up the energy the blood had given him; and in doing so he saw him.

The Persian really shouldn't have been so surprised, considering how long he had been there, sitting curled up against one side of the hole while his legs stretched across to rest casually on the other side of the hole, effectively blocking the way for the shades; who were even now reluctantly creeping back down the passage, realizing that they had lost and that there would be no blood this time.

Nadir's lips parted, but no sound came out. He inclined his own head, but said nothing. Golden eyes met jade, and neither was willing to look away first.

"Nadir."

"Erik."

And then there was silence, save for the last muted gurgles of those disappearing down the tunnel, not bothering to stay and watch the possible combat.

"Do you come here often?"

That was enough to urge a weak chuckle from Nadir, quickly stifled. "Not here, so much." He looked back at Darius, now sleeping calmly and peacefully. "And here is not the place to be discussing such things, Erik. Back down below."

"After you, then, dear Nadir," he drawled, removing his legs from the opposite wall and standing upright; and he didn't move until Nadir cautiously stepped forward and slipped into the tunnel. Only then did he calmly step after him, and seal off the fragile connection to the living world. He caught one last sight of Darius, unaware of his own blood soaking through his clothes, before the world was sealed off altogether.

Dropping back down into the Land of the Dead was harder than going up from it, in some way. Of course, the world inside the circle of protection was not truly the world of the living, but only a connection in itself to that plain. But, though he hated to admit it, the scent of the blood had fascinated him, along with the lesser spirits. It disgusted him as well, but there it was. The scent of life, of rich and bountiful life, had caught his attention now as much as any human dreg. It wasn't the blood in itself, but the reminder of what warm, flowing blood signified.

His feet landed on the banks of the river, all of its make-believe waters now safely, if sulkily, back in its banks, and looked hard at Nadir. "I believe that I will repeat what I thought earlier, when first I caught wind of this procedure, and your part in it. You are a filthy hypocrite."

Nadir's smile was rather fixed. "Do you have anything else to say to me before you storm off, Erik? Any insults? Any degradation to pour upon my head? Go on, for I will not stop you. All I will say is that I am still not sorry that I did it."

Nadir's calm in the face of his growing anger did wonders, as it always did. Damn the Persian, but he couldn't stay angry at him. Not when he knew that he would do the exact same thing, should a particular someone have summoned him. If that happened, he would tear through shadow and earth and sea and air to reach her side.

"I see." He looked up at the roof of the cavern. "I presume that he was the one who summoned you to advise the Vicomte? Maybe I should have let those spirits through after all." But there was no real savor in his words, and he knew in his mind that even if he had known the truth, he still would have kept the shades back. No one deserved to die like that, not even one who had engineered his down fall.

Well…maybe a few. He could think of two off the top of his head with no debate whatsoever.

"No, you wouldn't." Damn Nadir for being so far seeing. "You may be trying to act differently, Erik, but you would never do that. You are only deceiving yourself."

"As are you, Nadir." He was determined not to be chastised by the person he had, after all, denounced. "What happened to all your lessons of not interfering in the world of the living that you drummed into me so long ago?"

"Lessons that you, apparently, failed to take. But I…I could not help it." Nadir shook his head. "Allah help me, Erik, I could not! He has summoned me again and again. He is my great grandson, one of the last remnants of my blood left. Save for him and his sister, who I can never meet or know, I have no family left, none at all. He is precious to me, so precious."

"You have a family." The betrayal seemed even worse now, because it was doubled, and not against him but against more little Ayesha, who thought she had Nadir's love when in truth she was only a replacement. "You have your daughter, or at least the girl you claim is your daughter. Do not think that pleading your case will soften me." He refused to mention himself as part of that little adopted family any longer.

"Do not think that I love Ayesha less because of this. I love her all the more, because she can be my daughter as he can never be my relative. I am dead, and he is alive." Nadir leaned against the cavern wall, closing his eyes. "But that does not mean that he is not dear to me. Ever since he first risked himself in summoning me, I have come. I have always come, simply to see him, to see my face and that of my wife upon his skull, to know that my blood lives on in such a good, kind, honorable man. I could never love anyone as much as I love Ayesha, but Darius is very nearly as important to me, perhaps so because he is more at risk than she is." Nadir's eyes opened again, and now they were pin points as they glared at the ceiling.

"Which is why, Erik, if you had let those spirits consume him, I would have destroyed you. I would have torn your soul from your precious body, and ripped your spirit to pieces and shreds." He turned his glare upon him, and he blinked at the rage in the Persian's face. This was unlike Nadir's usual, long-suffering temperament in the utmost extreme. Now there was cold, harsh fury in every line upon his face, and Erik's short-lived flesh trembled with a cold that had nothing to do with his surroundings. Nadir meant what he said, even if he might not be able to carry it out, and that troubled him more than he could allow himself to think.

"I did nothing to your little great grandson, Nadir, and I have no intention of harming him now. It is not as if I could."

"Just as well," Nadir growled, stepping forward, pointing an accusing finger at him. "Something has happened to him, though. Something I understand all too well. He is in danger. All of those poor children are."

Oh, no.

"All of them? Even Christine?" His voice was weak and crawled from between his lips like an insect escaping from a cave.

Nadir's rage had gone, to be replaced with concern. "I have said too much. I should go. Goodbye, Erik." At once he was gone.

Erik was left standing upon the bank, thinking furiously. Something had happened to the children, Nadir had said. That probably meant Christine's little friends, as well as his poor Christine herself, and Darius. And the Vicomte, he mentally added, but he was less than worried about Raoul de Chagny. All his thoughts were on Christine.

What does this mean? The theory of exchange, a price paid. Clearly those who had stolen her from him were suffering for their daring. Of course he would not smile at the plight of fair ladies, but it comforted him to know there was at least some justice in the world.

But Christine…Christine was in danger. Up there, there was a danger which threatened to destroy her and all those around her.

He sighed. He knew all too well that he was clever, and he knew the extent of his intelligence as well, which was far beyond the scope of most men. The way he had lived had meant that he sometimes had to cut out musings to arrive at a conclusion more quickly; now he could very easily surmise what was going on, and what would happen, to all of them.

I have been blind.

He knew now what he would do. He would not fight off insanity, or the pangs of love unrequited. He had a purpose once again, and he would fulfill it.

He could wait. He was good at waiting. Perhaps this was what he had truly been waiting for, all along, ever since his death. And so he would await his chance, as he prepared for the catalyst of this whole squalid affair.

It was all he could do, now; even though he had more than suspicions of what the actual catalyst would inevitably be. For what was likely to happen to actually work, only one thing would do.

Someone will…

Protect her, my dear, dear Christine…

Someone's going to die.

I had quite a lot of fun this chapter, not only with putting in all the oozy sounding words to make your skin creep when it comes to reading about the spirits from the river, but also subtly expressing my views on the human soul – only, if you're reading this, it's not so subtle after all. I mean, if you strip away all the stuff that we believe makes us human, all the theories and ideas built up over the years, the imagination and belief, would we really be any different from animals? Of course not, is what I believe. Likewise, just because an animal cannot feel curiosity or intelligence to the same level that we can does not make them any less important than us. In fact, it often makes them wiser. Without ethics or doubts to get in the way, they often live longer. Place a dog and a man in a disaster area, and see who survives the longest.

Humans, meanwhile, in contrast to animals, have what many choose to call a soul, and in having a soul we also have a conscience, which guides us through life and helps us to make the decisions we see fit. Does that truly make us better? I was once asked a question in my tutor group, along the lines of whether a computer might be able to develop a conscience, and I began to play around with the idea that, in the end, we ourselves are just natural computers. Taking away the flesh and muscle and nerve endings on our part, and the wires and electrodes and such things on the part of the computer, we're all just a lot of electrical signals, eternally sending instructions, ideas and commands. When we are born, we are brand new, and our chemically and electrically powered brain is ready to be programmed as those around us see fit. Is this not, in the end, like a newly bought computer? I ventured this theory to my dad, and went on to say that perhaps the only reason technology and computers aren't prized as highly as human life (an opinion which may well be swiftly declining in this modern day and age) is because you can't switch a human back on after turning it off by various means, as you can a computer.

Dad didn't enter into the spirit of the conversation (and really, can you blame him?) and said I made human prospects sound awfully depressing, like Brave New World or 1984. I disagreed, saying that I was thinking more along the lines of The Matrix.

You can tell that I'm gearing myself up to start my philosophy classes again, can't you? At least one thing I've learned can be applied to what I've written, if nothing else; we were discussing the idea of the spirit surviving after death, and the possibility of ghosts actually existing. At one point we debated a theory that a ghost is not truly a human spirit but merely an impression left by a former person, perhaps the distress or fear or anger they felt at their death. This, I felt, fitted in rather well with the idea of the shades in the river, since I doubted that proper spirits would appreciate being rowed around on and stirred up by a pole, while less than humanistic impressions, of course, wouldn't give two hoots about anything but the prospect of blood, which explains why they were so eager to get Christine's when she first came down there. (Not that I'd thought all this out at the start, of course – I just did it that way because it looked good in Disney's Hercules.)

By the way, ignore the stuff at the top. I'm not really depressed about being eighteen. Also, I don't really think anyone would have to be crazy to marry me. Of course they wouldn't!

What they would have to be, of course, is possessed of an extremely large library with lots and lots of floors, big winding corkscrew staircases with gleaming banisters, and swishing step ladders on every level. Gotta love the swishing step ladders.

In short, a library that exactly resembles the library from Disney's Beauty and the Beast.

…

And thus I will be a spinster for a long, long time.

Reviews for the half-Irish, eighteen year old, spinster seamstress. (It's eerie to think how much I actually resemble a spinster in the 18th century.)